LOST IN THE ECHO
by Daughter of Kyne
Summary: Neku Sakuraba had nothing — only the feeling of being lost in the echo of memories he could never let go of. He had died long before that day. Long before he had even known something like the Reaper's Game could exist. [Drabble. Rated T for Abuse & Graphic Content.]


_Disclaimer: The World Ends With You and characters do not belong to me. I am not making any profit nor am I claiming these events to be true. This is, simply put, my thoughts and my theory on the background of Neku Sakuraba._

 _Warning: Contains abuse and violence._

* * *

 _ **LOST IN THE ECHO**_

It all started when he was six.

He used to be like all the other kids, smiling and laughing, comparing boxed lunches and showing secret treasures found on the playground or wandering down the streets. He used to be able to hold onto his mother's hand, hiding behind her skirt shyly whenever he would see that little brown haired girl, holding that stuffed animal as she stood beside her father. He used to sit on that little stool behind the counter of his mother's fashion boutique — fashion was a way of survival in Shibuya — watching the people passing by.

Always watching that girl.

Never able to speak up and simply say hello.

Instead, he hid behind music. There was always music playing, from the little radio set behind the counter. Whenever he felt alone and bored, because his mother would be so busy with the other people, he would play around with the radio.

For his birthday, his mother got him his first music player — a walkman along with a pair of headphones that were a little too big to stay atop his orange hair, messy and unkempt in a way that resembled spikes.

Therefore, he settled for them to rest against the nape of his neck, closing his eyes and drawing his knees close as he sat propped on that little stool, the world fading in and out. Lost in the echo of his music, his thoughts. Little white shorts barely hiding his bruised knees, blue t-shirt much too big for his small body. Small and nimble fingers drumming against his thighs.

It would always be after dark by the time they would travel down the illuminated streets of neon lights toward their apartment building. His mother always smiled — but it never reached her eyes, eyes as blue as the night sky.

Eyes that mirrored his, including the sorrow.

She avoided home.

He avoided it, too.

He would hide behind her skirt, clutching the material tightly in his small fist, the toothy grin that he had worn all day having faded completely by the time they reached the front door. She would silently place a hand to his head, giving him a tender smile as she carefully placed the keys in the lock and tried to open the front door as quietly as possible, flinching with every creak.

He would hold his breath as they stepped inside, trying to avoid empty bottles and pray the television would block out the sounds of their timid footsteps. He would clutch onto that gray skirt, pleated and long, long enough to hide him from view if needed.

Sometimes, they managed to get to the safety of the bedroom without disrupting _him_.

Sometimes they could breathe and the fear would slip away.

He sometimes was so drunk that he was passed out to the point nothing could wake him. They didn't want to take that chance though, so they acted like the frightened mother and son that they were, not wanting to bring his wrath down upon them.

Neku hated the day his father died and left them in the care of his drunken bastard of a brother more than anything.

He was only six-years-old.

Too small to fight back.

Too small to do anything…

So that night when he was got in the middle of it all, he could do nothing other than hide behind his mother's skirt as she was backed into a corner — her pleas playing on repeat in his mind as blows rained down on her frail body.

She would fall and clutch Neku to her, fighting to keep him safe in her arms as the words _whore_ and _slut_ rang loudly through his ears. Still, he couldn't shut his eyes as he wanted.

All he could do was _stare_.

Always staring.

Looking up at the man he hated more than anything — the same man who dared have the same face as the man whom he had loved more than anything. They had been twins, as different as day as night.

Just like angels and demons.

He hated his uncle. He wanted him to die. Six-years-old, and he wanted someone to die — six-years-old and he knew the cruelties of the world already.

Death did come — but not for _him_.

Blood coated his memories — as it once coated his face as the man gave the fatal blow.

His mother's arms wrapped around him tightly, her lifeless eyes staring at him and filled with endless torment. Blood coated him, but he didn't dare move. The bastard panicked and fled — leaving his nephew with the body of the boy's mother, broken and lifeless.

He had been found by the police. Flashing lights of blue and red. Men in uniform.

Neku couldn't help but hate them, too. After all that time, they finally had the nerve to show up and help — _after_ it was too late. He had screamed — the loudest scream his small lungs could manage, screamed until he was hoarse as they took his precious mother from him.

There was a funeral, but no one knew what to say. No one really cared. It had always been that way.

The only one who cared that he was still breathing was an estranged relative — one he went to live with after that. His uncle had been charged with murder, locked behind bars. Never to be heard from again.

He adjusted to his new life without her. His great-aunt was okay. Just batty and odd. She left him alone, looking at him with a pity he hated. He moved to a new part of town. One that was different from the bustling streets of neon and crowds. He lived in an old house that smelled of mothballs and was covered in pinks and mauve flowers. He slept in the old sewing room, made into a makeshift bedroom for a great-nephew that hadn't been anticipated.

He played with needles and thread, but no amount of stitching could heal the wounds that marred his heart.

Years passed.

He was thirteen, about to go into his first year of junior high. He made a friend — his first friend since primary school. A boy named Judai. They would go to Shibuya together. They would go listen to music. They would go skating together and spend hours just sitting on the half-pipe, talking.

He was the first real friend Neku ever had.

That was until a stupid girl from school came between them. She liked Neku, Judai liked her. Neku didn't want anything to do with her. He didn't even like her. He thought she was annoying - loud and too obnoxious for her own good.

He liked shy girls.

He liked girls that reminded him of that brown haired girl always by her father's side.

He regretted never asking for her name. He regretted never making his existence known to her.

Judai was supposed to be his friend. To believe him when he said he didn't want anything to do with her.

Jealousy truly was a monster.

When she tried to confess and kiss him, and Neku was trying to push her off him, Judai came onto the school roof. He had been late from basketball practice and they had agreed to meet up there. That stupid girl had ambushed Neku.

Judai believed what he wanted to.

He attacked Neku, calling him names. Throwing punches. Treating him as if he was worthless. He never once gave Neku the benefit of the doubt. He never once believed Neku over her.

Because boys in love were stupid and blind.

Because girls were manipulative and cruel.

Because people only cared about themselves and victimizing themselves to the world to get pity, to have others feeling sorry, to manipulate them into giving them what they wanted.

Neku _hated_ people.

He hated the feelings of betrayal that haunted him for two years.

In the end, all he had was that small bedroom, the headphones he wore to block out the noise and to lose himself in the echo.

To block out the memories as pain lacerated his already mangled heart.

In the end, it never really mattered.

It didn't matter that all he wanted was to be held as if he mattered again.

He couldn't wash away the feeling of blood coating his body — just like he couldn't wash away all the pain. Needles and thread couldn't stitch him back together.

People sought to use him. The only solace he had were the notes and lyrics, the melodies and the rhymes. He had nothing else.

Nothing.

And he was content with that.

That was until that day he woke up in the game that changed his life. A means to an end — an end game. It ended the broken reality Neku had wrapped around himself as a barrier.

Those weeks were hard on him. They expanded his world. They made him change. They made him _care_ again.

Now, he had only one choice.

Live.


End file.
